Slip of the Tongue (Slip of the Tongue 1)

“Light bulb,” Finn says, holding one up. “From Home Depot.” He’s tall enough that he doesn’t need a chair to reach the ceiling.

“Do you have a flashlight?” I ask.

“I’ll grab it.” He sets the bulb on a table and comes toward the doorway. He’s mostly a silhouette, barely lit by the glare of candles in the other room. The hollows of his cheeks are shadowed. He stops. It could be the low ceiling, but he seems twice my size.

Adrenaline jolts me. This place is unfamiliar. Dark. Private. The air between us changes, growing heavy, uncertain.

He lays a warm hand on my shoulder. “Excuse me.”

Goose bumps rise over my skin. I’m blocking the doorway. I step aside so he can pass. My brain recovers slowly, unwrapping a thought piece by piece like a package. I like the easy way he moves. His unassuming charm. The way his bottom lip seems stuck in a perpetual pout. I’m attracted to him.

“Do you mind?” he asks.

I nearly jump out of my skin. “What?”

He holds out a flashlight. “So I can change the bulb.”

“Oh.” I take it. “Yes. Okay.”

He gets into position. I turn the light on and shine it at him.

He waves his arms in front of his face. “Jesus. I need to see the lamp—it doesn’t need to see me,” he says.

I giggle and shift the glare to the ceiling. “Sorry.”

“You will be if you blind me. Then you’d be forced to take care of me.”

I mock gasp. “How do you figure?”

“Out of guilt,” he says simply.

“Guilt?” I tease. “What’s that?”

“Ha. How much time do you have?” He screws the light bulb in and brushes his hands on his jeans. “That should do it.”

I flip the light on. Nothing happens. “Is it in all the way?”

“Yes. Are you sure that’s the right switch?”

“It is in our kitchen.”

I aim the flashlight along the walls, searching for any others. Finn removes the bulb and blows on it.

“I think we’re screwed,” I say. “That’s a little light bulb humor for you.”

“Very funny.” He tosses the bulb in a full garbage can near the sink. “Thanks a lot, Home Depot. Now what?”

I get two candles from the living room and set them on the kitchen counter. “We forge ahead. There’s a job to do.”

He tilts his head. “Are you sure?”

“The show must go on.”

He chuckles. “I should invite you over more often. You’re like a human inspirational poster.”

“Hmm.” I try to think of something uplifting that relates to switching on a light bulb. A familiar quote comes to me. “I will love you the same in the dark as I do in the light,” I murmur, though I probably should’ve kept it to myself.

“Now you just sound like a Pinterest board.”

“It’s from Nathan’s vows.” I force a smile. “He wrote that.”

“Oh.” Finn leaves the room and returns with a box in his arms. “Pots and pans.”

I peek inside. “A lot here for someone who doesn’t cook.”

“How about under the stove?” he asks, as if this is our apartment.

“Makes sense. Where’s the rest?”

“Outside the doorway, to the left.”

I find a box labeled Silverware. Finn’s handwriting is unusually neat. I take the one underneath it too, since it has other drawer items, including a utensil organizer. The first two of its three labels have been crossed out with black marker: Marissa. Donate. Kitchen.

Marissa? An ex-girlfriend? Is that the real reason Finn moved?

I don’t ask. It isn’t my business, and I tell myself I’m better off not knowing. I return to the kitchen and get to work unpacking the boxes in a way that seems right to me. The sterling tings each time I drop silverware into the organizer. I have to squint to make sure each one goes in the right slot. Finn’s making a lot of noise trying to get all the pans to fit.

“By any chance, was your kitchen in Connecticut a little bigger?” I ask.

“What gave it away?” He sighs, pulling out a solid black pan. “What the hell is this thing? Can I get rid of it?”

“Cast iron skillet,” I say. “Why on Earth do you own it if you don’t know what it’s for?”

He does a bicep curl and sets it on the counter. “Hell, I don’t even need a gym membership while I have one of these.”

“Skillets make frittatas, not muscles.” I say muscles flirtatiously. It’s a good word for that.

“A fri-whatta?”

I squeeze my eyes shut as I laugh. His furrowed brow alone has me doubling over.

“I’m serious,” he says.

“I know.” I gasp for breath. “That’s why it’s so funny.” I point behind me, into the other room. “There’s a box that says donate if you want to put it in there.”

He glances over but leaves the skillet where it is. “Thanks, but since you interrupted my workout, I think I’ll squeeze in a few reps as we go.”

I smile, and in the silence that follows, I think about Finn’s arms. How they might feel around a woman. How they might feel around me. It’s nice to be held. I wish Nathan would knock on the door. Drag me home. Put his own arms around me. Make love to me. Remembering his vows has made me feel warm inside, fuzzy. And maybe even a little guilty? Which is odd for me. I’ve never been a big believer in guilt or regret.

I remember a recent discussion Nathan and I had over the summer. A friend of mine admitted over drinks to having second thoughts about her fiancé. I came home, turned on a bedside lamp, and told Nathan.

“Will she marry him anyway?” he asked.

“I think so. Out of guilt if nothing else.”

“You wouldn’t have gone through with our wedding if you’d had any doubts,” Nate stated.

I agreed. “And I hope you wouldn’t have either.”

“Probably not. I have no way of knowing, though. I never had any.” He sat up against the headboard, his eyes sleepy but engaged. “But she’s staying with her fiancé out of guilt and nothing more. How sick is that?” he asked. “Imagine if no one felt guilt. We’d be free of our own demons.”

“Without guilt, there’d be no remorse,” I said. “Sure, we’d all be happier if we could forgive ourselves for this or that. But imagine the world we’d live in if people had no reason to think twice about how they treated others.”

“All right, but hypothetically speaking—if we could learn as a society to deal with our guilt in a healthier manner, we’d function better. Don’t you think?”

“Give me an example.”